UC-NRLF 


273    DIM 


GIFT  OF 


M.  £. 


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(7vM\<t/vtl 


CANYON  GARDEN 


BY 


MARGARET  ERWIN 


SAN   FRANCISCO 

A.  M.  ROBERTSON 

MDCCCCXXII 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY  A.  M.   ROBERTSON 


SUNSET    PRESS.     SAN     FRANCISCO 


FOR  FOUR  BOYS  WHO  WERE  THE 
INSPIRATION  AND  SOMETIMES  THE 
EXPRESSION  OF  THESE  SKETCHES 


CONTENTS 

PAGES 

CANYON  GARDEN i  to  15 

CANYON  VOICES .      17  to  27 

SANTA  FE  LIMITED  AND 

DESERT  SKETCHES 29  to  47 

MOODS 49  to  66 

MISCELLANEOUS 67  to  103 


CANYON  GARDEN 


CANYON  GARDEN 


Come  with  me  to  my  canyon.     Let  us  climb 
down,  down.     Parting  the  laurel  and  the  wild 
bank  rose,  riotous  in  its  beauty.     Down  to  this 
still  spot.     This  bed  of  a  mountain  stream  in 
winter.     This  place  of  rejoicing  birds  in 
summer.     And  in  spring, — this  place  for  the 
dancing  of  our  souls. 


II 

Swinging  willows  and  young  green  fern. 
Reaching  tendrils  of  passion  vine.     The  sky 
of  a  depth  and  strength  to  hold  the 
birth-compelling  sun  to  the  warm  and 
welcoming  earth.     I  feel  the  rising  blood  of  the 
spring  within  me.     And  a  wild  canary  is  voice 
for  me.     For  my  ecstasy,  this  ecstasy  of  the 
spring. 


Ill 

Today  I  must  forget,  forget.     The  throbbing 
in  my  throat  will  cease.     I  turn  my  face  unto 
the  sun.     And  draw  my  hair  across  my  eyes. 
And  sleep.     I  breathe  my  strength  from  the 
wind.     My  peace  from  the  canyon  night. 
Tomorrow  I  shall  have  confidence. 


IV 


Give  yourself  to  the  night.     Let  the  wind  take 
you  over  the  hills  and  bay.     Drift  back  with 
the  fog  along  the  canyon  bank.     And  above, 
with  the  stars,  look  on  time  and  on  the  many 
worlds.     Give  yourself  to  the  night. 


Fresh  from  the  springs  of  eternal  things  comes 
the  canyon  rain.     Slowly  at  first,  with 
rhythmic  fall,  touching  the  bay  leaves, 
caressing,  blessing.     Then, — mate  of  the 
fragrant,  wild  night  wind,  conquering,  rioting, 
deluging.     Bending  the  oaks  and  the  laurel 
low.     Lashing  the  vines  in  the  brook's  mad 
flow.     An  exultant  surge. 


VI 

The  moon  is  blowing  eerily.     The  wind  is  wild 
to-night.     Go  to  the  top  of  the  quarry  hill, 
if  you  can  stand  against  it.     The  clouds  are 
racing  from  its  touch.     It  is  full  of  stinging 
dust.     The  wind  is  in  torment  to-night. 
It  has  lost  itself  in  the  canyon.     And  what  is  a 
human  soul  to  the  soul  of  the  wind?     The 
wind  that  carries  the  worlds. 


6 


VII 

She  is  at  home.     The  smoke  is  rising  from  her 
chimney,  straight  and  thin  and  blue.     So  full 
of  grace  it  is,  so  mystic  blue,  it  might  be  vapor 
of  her  dreams.     She  is  at  home!     Heart,  stay 
away.     It  will  be  wiser  so.     Your  dreams  are 
straining  things  and  clumsy-limned  and  flame. 
Though  she  may  long,  let  her  not  know.     Can 
you  be  silent,  heart? 


VIII 


Do  you  know  nasturtiums  and  geraniums  in  an 
old  California  garden?    Great  matted  masses, 
pink  and  scarlet,  flame  and  purple,  gold  and 
orange?     The  glory  of  these  gracious  weeds, 
nasturtiums  and  geraniums.     Their  faith  in 
beauty.     Triumphant  riotous  grasses,  reaching, 
running,  covering  unsightly  deaths,  deserted 
paths  and  feeble  garden  plans.     Tame 
creatures  grown  wild.     Each  year  the  rains 
revive  their  failing  life.     Do  you  know 
nasturtiums  and  geraniums  in  a  deserted 
California  garden  ? 


IX 


One  does  not  need  hashish.    A  canyon  course 
will  do.    Nor  opium,  nor  absinthe.    But  a  day 
intensely  blue.    Some  high  hills  to  dream  upon. 
A  spirit  hand  to  trace.    A  cob-web  shining 
in  the  grass  with  all  its  faith  in  lace.     The 
eucalyptus  near  the  sky,  pillar  of  reaching  grace. 
The  quarry  pool  at  twilight  is  the  meeting  place. 


My  neighbor's  houses  run  down  the  hill 
swiftly.   They  begin  at  a  eucalyptus  grove  that 
touches  the  sky.    At  the  bottom  they  slip  into 
the  sea.    At  night  their  lights  are  like  spots  of 
brilliance  on  a  stream. 


10 


XI 

From  five  to  six,  the  women  are  putting  on 
their  aprons.     And  peeling  potatoes.     All 
righting   for   peace   within    themselves.      Only 
here  and  there  a  great,  forgetting  heart.     Let 
them  come  out  and  sit  with  me  upon   the 
canyon  bank.    For  peace  is  here.    Slow  peace, 
enduring  peace.     The  elderberry  sways,  the 

golden-flowering   broom The    air    is    full 

of  nature's  harmonies.  The  blessing  of  the 
sun  is  on  my  head.  The  greeting  of  the  earth 
is  on  my  hands.  And  my  sick  mind  is  gone. 
Let  them  come  out. 


ii 


XII 


The  whole  house  was  about  twenty  by  twenty. 
And  the  living  room  filled  with  the  smell  of 
Sunday  dinner.  Yet  they  sat  there,  such  huge 
people,-a  great  woman  by  the  window  fanning 
herself,  a  heavy  man  with  suspendered  figure 
and  a  neighbor's  massive  wife.  They  sat  there 
talking  little  things  on  a  Sunday  afternoon. 
And  outside  were  the  canyon  and  the  foot-hills 
and  far,  beckoning  mountains,  great  luring 
spaces.  Yet  they  sat  there  on  a  Sunday  after 
noon  in  what  they  called  the  living  room. 


12 


XIII 

Lovely  lady  of  Japan.  Iris  blossoming  in 
January,  on  my  canyon's  edge.  Purple  of  the 
mysterious  night  and  blue  of  the  radiant 
morning.  With  my  red  curved  scissors,  made 
for  you  by  your  brothers,  I  greet  you  to  prepare 
you  for  your  destiny.  Here  in  my  turquoise 
bowl,  in  your  gracious  perfection,  you  shall  be 
Heaven.  And  this  rare  blade  of  green,  leaning 
away  from  you,  shall  be  Earth.  Between  you, 
reaching  and  rising,  with  the  silver  rain  of  the 
dew  on  their  bosoms,  this  stalk  of  buds.  These 
three  on  a  subtly  twisting  stem  shall  be  Man. 
I  lift  you  reverently.  I  bid  you  welcome  to  my 
house,  upon  the  altar  of  my  table. 


XIV 


The  canyon  echoes  our  idle  dreams.  The  day 
is  large  and  benign.  Through  interweaving  of 
fern  and  bay  the  veil  of  the  sky  is  very  near. 
The  bosom  of  heaven  is  touching  the  hill.  And 

we  lie  very  still.   We  do  not  try  to  answer 

There  is  a  thrill  of  spring.  And  we  could  sing 
the  answer.  From  the  fog  and  the  rain  and 
the  night,  life  and  life  and  light!  Into  this 
garden  of  mine  that  grows  at  the  end  of  the 
trail,  spring  and  the  whistling  quail! 


XV 


Your  voice  is  like  the  wind's  voice  in  the  valley. 
Your  eyes  have  seemed  to  hold  the  light  of 
summer  noons.  Your  hands  are  quick  with 
understanding.  I  know  you  in  a  thousand 
voices.  In  a  thousand  moods.  And  when  you 
hold  me  in  your  arms,  I  know  your  soul  as  I 
cannot  know  my  own. 


CANYON  VOICES 


I  like  to  wear  my  rubber  hat  when  the  rain 
tapples  on  it.    I  like  an  umbrella,  too,  when 
the  drops  race  from  the  points.    But  I  like  my 
rain  hat  better,  because  the  sky  water  is 
nearer  my  head. 


II 


Cornflakes  to-night.   I'm  glad.   I  like  them 
now.    Almost  I  like  everything  but  squash. 
Madre,  my  heart  tells  me  squash  is  nasty! 


Ill 


Precious,  most  precious,  most  infinitely 
precious!    Baby  lover  of  the  widest  world, 
smiling  at  me  as  you  drink  milk  of  life  and  life 
of  milk.    Little  fat  philosopher,  Jimmy! 


21 


IV 

You  are  so  beautiful,  my  little  lad!    So  soft, 
so  dear,  you  make  me  glad  with  a  great  gladness. 
That  reaches  out  to  other  babies  on  other 
stars.     Come,  let  us  dance  our  way  to  Mars! 
You  know  the  way.     You  little,  warm,  sweet 
breathing  thing,  with  marabout  hair  and 
apricot  skin!     My  little,  lovely  baby,-oh,  we 
must  have  faith  in  human  ends,  when 
beginnings  can  be  as  beautiful  as  you. 


22 


Dear   little   lover   of  life,   with    your   morning 
shout  of  joy.    And  your  evening  peace  as  you 
nestle  down,  a  little  sleepy  boy.    Dear  little 
lover  of  life,  I  have  seen  you  worship  the  sun. 
I  have  heard  you  answer  the  meadow  lark, 
just  when  the  day  was  begun.    Dear  little 
lover  of  life,  you  seem  so  wise  and  gay!    Is  it 
because  you  but  begin,  or,  do  you  know  the 
way? 


VI 

My  gay  baby  sits  on  the  canyon  bank  with  his 
brother's  jazz  cap  on  the  side  of  his  head. 
It  is  made  of  pie  pieces  of  orange  and  purple. 
He  waves  his  arms,  and  roars  and  gurgles  and 
screams  his  joy  at  this  blossom  day  of  spring. 
With  a  fat,  pink  foot  he  pounds  a  rattle. 


VII 


My  canary  and  my  baby  sing  to  me  when  the 
soft  light  touches  the  western  wall.    I  give  my 
canary  water.    I  give  my  baby  milk.    And  then 
I  go  to  sleep  again.    I  am  stupidly  unaware 
of  the  morning  joy  of  my  baby  and  my  canary. 


VIII 

Hail,  little  toy-grabber!    Hail,  O  brother  baby! 
Where  are  you  gone?    The  quail  are  calling  for 
you  in  the  canyon.    There  is  a  shining  new 
shovel  in  the  sand-pile.     And  I  want  you,  O 
my  brother  baby.     You  may  have  the  wagon 
and  the  watering-pot.    I  will  give  you  the 
biggest  pieces.   I  will  help  you  gather  the 
eucalyptus  cups.    Without  you  it  isn't  any  fun. 
Come  back,  O  my  brother  baby! 


26 


IX 

Darling.     And  dearest.     And  little  baby  love- 
bud,  sweeter  and  neater  than  a  rose.     Fairer 
and  rarer  than  a  lover  in  the  springtime,  little 
baby  kinglet  tickle-toes!    I  want  to  taste  you. 
I  want  to  smell  you.    I  want  to  hear  you 
gurgle,  bubble,  crow.   I  want  to  love  you 
unutterably.   I  want  to  cherish  you  so  tenderly. 
I  want  to  help  you,  old  wobble-head,  to  be  a 
troubadour  in  a  sad  world. 


SANTA  FE  LIMITED 

AND 

DESERT  SKETCHES 


SANTA    FE      LIMITED. 
I       IN    THE    MORNING. 

In  the  morning,  rows  of  olive  trees,  their 
branches  tipped  with  silver,  shining  upward. 
The  desert  and  new  cotton  fields  and  gins. 
Barren  henna  foot-hills.    Flocks  of  sheep  with 
Mexican  shepherds  and  burros  and  dogs.    Pale 
green  snow  on  the  horizon  mountains.     Long 
stretches  of  sun  on  blue-green  alfalfa  fields. 
Dark  grey  fir  trees  in  masses  beneath  the 
clouds.    After  Tehachapi,  mirages  on  either 
side.     Clear  sheets  of  blue  water  below  the 
purple  needles  of  the  mountains.    And  the 
desert.   Always  the  desert.    For  miles  a  stern 
and  mysterious  bosom.    The  red  bluffs  at 
Pinta,  Holbrook,  Adamana,  have  white 
embroidery  of  snow.    In  Arizona  the  rivers  of 
sand  are  flowing  to  the  mountains.     And  the 
mountains  are  flowing  down  to  meet  them. 
Inside  the  train,  cards  and  the  flipping  of 
words.    Outside,  the  desert.    Always  the 
desert,  silent,  mysterious. 


II      TOURIST   FROM  IOWA. 

Say,  look  at  that  cliff!   Now  really,  isn't 
Nature  beautiful?     Of  course,  only  an  Indian 
would  live  here.     But  what  is  more  wonderful 
than  Nature,   after  all.      Now   there's  a  nice 
thing  to  paint.    Lovely,  that  canyon,  the  way 
Nature  has  shaped  it  all  out.    Talk  about  the 
Canadian  Rockies,  they  couldn't  be  any 
handsomer  than  this.     Do  your  eyes  hurt? 
Mine  do,  looking  at  all  this  scenery  since  we 
left  Los  Angeles.    There's  really  too  much  to 
see.    It's  a  quarter  after  eleven  now.    Porter, 
when  do  we  eat? 


Ill       SANTA    FE. 

We  are  here  at  last!   At  this  citadel,  the  end  of 
the  trail.    The  palace  of  the  governors,  this 
city  of  the  holy  faith.   At  the  mountains  of 
the  Blood  of  Christ  I  will  meet  you.   I  will  meet 
you  when  the  mountains  are  touched  with  the 
blood  of  the  sun.    Let  us  kiss  and  part  quickly. 
At  the  mountains  of  the  Blood  of  Christ. 


33 


IV      TWO   MEN. 


Ain't  it  a  pity  they  don't  cultivate  this  land? 

No  water. 

Well,  give  it  to  the  soldiers,  I'll  say. 


34 


V      THE    TRAINS. 

The  trains  are  weaving  into  Chicago.    Have 
you  seen   them  weaving  into  Chicago? 
Shuttle  engines,  warp  of  stiff  steel  rails.    From 
the  east,  from  the  north,  from  the  south, 
from  the  west,  northeast,  northwest,  southeast, 
southwest,  from  the  desert  and  from  the 
mountains,  from  the  snow  and  from  the  sun, 
the  trains  are  weaving  into  Chicago. 
Through  the  ugly  tapestry  of  tenemented 
streets  the  trains  are  weaving  into  Chicago. 


35 


VI       INDIAN  PUEBLO. 

An  Indian  pueblo  in  New  Mexico  was  very 
quiet  in  the  afternoon  sun.    After  the  grinding 
sigh  of  the  brakes,  silence  and  the  desert.    And 
the  desert's  people  who  live  in  beauty.    White 
and  yellow  adobe  houses  with  blue  doorways 
surrounded  by  peach  trees  in  pink  bloom.    An 
old  Indian,  wrapped  in  a  white  blanket,  stood 
on  the  top  roof  of  the  pueblo.     He  stood 
silently  looking  across  the  desert  to  the 
sacred  mountains.  Below  Indian  women  were 
making  black  pottery,  baking  it  in  mud  ovens. 
An  old  woman  in  a  red  blanket  did  not  raise 
her  eyes  to  the  train. 


VII       IN  THE   NIGHT. 

In  the  night,  Colorado,  prairie  Kansas. 
Uneasy  sleep  and  noises  of  the  railroad  yards. 
Flashings  of  lanterns,  shuntings,  husky 
voices.      The    train    slips    through    the    night, 
running,  triumphant.    In  the  silences, 
comfortable  snorings.   The  desert  and  the 
prairie  are  left  behind.    And  the  people  who 
live  in  beauty.    In  the  night  the  trains  are 
weaving  into  Chicago.     Shuttle  engines,  warp 
of  stiff  steel  rails.    Through  the  ugly  tapestry 
of  tenemented  streets  the  trains  are  weaving 
into  Chicago. 


37 


TRAIN    VENDER. 


Folks,  your  attention  now.    To  the  left  as  we 
round  the  next  curve  you'll  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  Sauger  d'Christy  Mountains.    This  means 
Blood  of  Christ.      Be  ready  now,  and  you'll 
get  a  real  view.     They're  covered  with  snow 
now,  but  when  those  ancient  padres  first  saw 
them  they  were  red  with  the  sunset.     Hence 
the  name.    I  have  here  some  smoked  glasses 
just  dimmed  enough  to  take  away  the  glare. 
They  are  ventilated  at  the  sides  and  specially 
fitted  to  the  head.    Fifty  cents  a  pair.    Who's 
taking  care  of  the  eyes  ?    Thank  you,  sir. 
Thank  you,  ma'am.    Got  any  goggles,  lady? 
No,  thank  you,  man.    I  am  resisting  you. 
Your  technique  is  too  perfect. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  glance  now  to  your 
right.     The  Collegiate  Rockies.     Those  three 
high  fellers  are  called  Harvard,  Yale  and 
Princeton.     I  have  here  some  lemon  drops,  if 
any  of  you  feel  this  mountain  sickness.     Ten 
cents  a  package,  crisp  and  snappy.     We're 
going  to  be  on  the  top  of  the  world  in  a  minute 

38 


now.    Ten  thousand,  two  hundred  and  forty- 
two  feet.   The  station  is  called  Tennessee  Pass. 
Here  Uncle  Sam  maintains  a  post  office,  so  you 
can  make  the  folks  at  home  happy  with  some 
of  these  view-folders.    All  the  points  of  interest 
for  twenty  cents.    Thank  you,  ma'am.    Thank 
you,  sir.    Lady,  don't  you  want  to  make 
someone  at  home  happy? 
No,  thank  you,  man.    I  am  resisting  you  for 
the  good  of  your  soul. 

To  the  right  now,  look  sharp.    And  you'll  see 
a  gold  mine  in  operation.    Now  folks,  I  have 
some  nice  fresh  figs  right  from  California. 
They're  just  packed  and  very  juicy.    Only 
fifteen  cents  and  right  from  California.     Who 
says  prices  are  not  down?    Your  money  back 
if  these  figs  are  not  delicious.     Thank  you, 
ma'am.     Thank  you,  sir.     Ain't  you  hungry 
this   afternoon,  lady?     What  can   I   get   you, 
ma'am?    Some  nice  peanuts,  oranges, 
chocolate-covered  cherries,  chewing-gum  or 
scenic  playing  cards?   A  magazine  now,  maybe. 
Or  a  real  good  book? 
No,  thank  you,  man. 
Lady,  you  been  on  this  route  before?    I  don't 


39 


think   so  now,  cause  I'm  pretty  good  at 

remembering  faces. 

I'll  wager  you  are,  man. 

An  apple,  lady?    Let  me  get  you  a  wine-sap 

right  from  these  Colorado  trees. 

All  right,  brother.    You  win.    And  a  truce 

with  an  apple,  a  dark  red  wine-sap  from 

these  Colorado  trees.    There  is  no  way  of 

escaping  you.    You  are  a  convincing  American, 

an  alluring  salesman  of  the  Blood  of  Christ 

or  lemon  drops. 


40 


RITUAL. 


I  place  myself  on  this  high  altar.  In  the 
white  sunlight  of  the  desert.  I  wrap  myself 
in  white,  woven  cloths.  In  the  white  silence 
of  the  desert.  I  set  a  censer  of  song  and  two 
prayer  feathers.  In  the  white  sunlight  of  the 
desert.  I  may  not  have  the  prayer  of  my  body 
and  of  my  heart.  But  I  will  live  near  a  white 
flame.  In  the  white  silence  of  the  desert. 


STAR. 


Pale  and  high,  the  evening  star  glimmers, 
frostily,  in  the  north,  where  I  am.    It  glows 
with  fire,  in  the  south,  where  you  are. 
Everything  glows,  in  the  south,  where  you  are, 


DESERT    SONG 


Kacha,  my  love  bird,  how  goes  it  with  thee 
in  the  desert?    An  exile  speaks.    Does  the 
yellow  moon  go  yearning  over  the  mountains 
to  the  south?    Does  the  yellow  moon  go 
yearning  over  the  mountains  to  the  south? 
Ah,  I  know  it  does.    For  I  feel  the  call  of  it 
in  me,  here.   Heart  of  me,  goodnight! 
Goodnight! 


43 


DESERT    NOON. 


My  feet  are  great  iron  weights  hanging  miles 
from  my  body.    My  hands  are  low-lying  ranges 
of  ribbed  rock  reaching  to  each  horizon.     My 
head  is  a  great  bowlder  of  pictured  stone  on  a 
slender  hill-top.    Only  my  heart  is  here,  strong 
as  the  sun's  heat.    When  the  afternoon  is 
unendurable,  and  we  crawl  into  the  shadow 
of  the  adobe,  my  heart  is  fresh  and  lightly 
moving. 


44 


TO    MARGERY. 


Someday,  in  memory,  some  vagrant  breeze 
will   bring  to  you   the   fragrance  of  your  soul 
that  night  of  desert  rain.    And  of  my  hair. 
When  you  are  massive  and  definite  you  will 
remember,-a  handkerchief.    And  you  will 
know  I  have  been  with  you  always. 


45 


HOOF    TUNE. 


Hoof  beats  on  the  desert  on  a  moonlight  night. 
Do  they  come  to  me?    Do  they  come  to  me? 
Horse  and  rider  are  one  to-night.    Does  he  come 
to  me?    Does  he  come  to  me?    Call  of  coyote 
on  the  mesa  height  shrills  to  the  exquisite 
torture  of  the  night.    Shall  we  ride,  shall  we 
dance  as  one  to-night.     Is  he  coming  to  me? 
Is  he  coming  to  me? 


DESERT    RETURN. 


Night  and  silence.  And  the  desert  wide.  Luring 
the  soul  to  its  infinite  stride.    A  moon  so  near, 
so  roundly  clear  above  the  southern  mountain 
host.    O,  desert  mountains,  to  you  at  last! 
Desert  mountains,  to  you  I  ride.    In  your  blue 
canyons  let  me  abide.   Moon  of  the  desert, 
welcome  me.    Peace  of  the  desert,  set  me  free. 
Gods  of  the  desert,  quicken  me,  to  love,  to 
live  in  this  country. 


47 


MOODS 


The  night  with  stars  is  full  of  mystery. 
Infinitude.    But  some  there  are  who  are  afraid 
of  mystery.    The  day  is  theirs.    The  lighted, 
measured  day.    Give  me  the  night  with  eyes 

to  see  great  outlines.    The  night all 

worlds  are  mine. 


II 

I  was  a  long  and  slender  vessel.  I  drifted  with 
the  winds.  I  shifted  with  the  tides.  With  every 
motion  of  the  lovely,  loving  water  beneath  my 
breast,  the  shining  peacock  water,  the  tossing 
grey  water,  the  foaming  white  water,  I  moved. 
On  the  eddies  of  rowboats  I  bobbed.  On  the 
long  swells  of  ocean-goers  I  rode.  I  was  a  long 
and  slender  vessel.  I  drifted  with  the  winds.  .  .  . 
but  only  the  length  of  my  mooring  line. 


Ill 

Like  a  sea  anemone,  when  anything  comes 
near,  I  fold  myself  away.    You  may  hold  me  in 
your  hand.    You  may  collect  me  for  your  sea 
garden.     But  the  eye  of  my  soul  is  watching 
you  behind  many  barriers.    Under  the  yellow 
cliffs  at  night,  in  my  purple,  rocky  bed, 
with  my  rose  and  red  companions  I  open  my 
heart  to  the  lovely  light  of  the  moon. 


IV 

I  cannot  ride  on  this  high  wave  of  the  spirit 
with  you  any  longer.  My  roots  go  deeply  into 
a  warm  and  fragrant  earth.  Are  you  always 
so  rare,  so  finely  spirited?  Or  do  you,  too,  long 
sometimes  for  the  warm  hand  of  a  friend  on 
your  breast?  Perhaps,  tomorrow,  spring  in 
the  soul  of  me  will  send  forth  a  thin  flower  to 
touch  with  you  your  far  world  of  dreams  and 
colored  song.  But  not  today.  Today  I  want  to 
sleep  in  the  sun.  I  cannot  ride  on  this  high 
wave  of  the  spirit  with  you  any  longer. 


54 


Oh,  gods  in  glory,  whom  men  made,-and 
women,  especially  women,-do  you  want  to 
stay  there?    If  you  do,  give  heed!  Give  heed 
to  the  crowds,  the  ugly  crowds.    Give  heed  to 
the  human  mass  that  seethes  and  breathes 
and  breeds  in  drains  of  cities.    Give  heed  to  the 
drift  that  only  pulses  to  a  horizon.    Oh,  gods 
in  glory,  whom  men  made,-and  women, 
especially  women,-give  heed  to  the  crowds. 
They  do  not  give  you  increase. 


55 


VI 

Driftwood  of  the  soul,  what  shall  I  do  with  you  ? 
If  I  leave  you  upon  the  shore  you  will  be 
washing  out  only  to  surge  back  again,  tossed 
by  sure  tides.    I  do  not  need  you  now. 
My  fuel  is  gathered  for  the  winter.   It  is 
stacked  in  neat  piles.     I  know.     I  will  burn 
you.     And  in  the  purple  magic,  copper  green 
and  blue  I'll  glimpse  the  wonders  that  I  might 
have  lived.     The  sailor  says  that  drift's  the 
thing  to  make  the  dreams  come  out. 


VII 

The  god  I  would  be  and  the  thing  I  am  play 
merry  ball  with  grotesque  posturings.  They 
leap  upon  the  hills  and  strike.  They  grovel 
cunningly  and  catch.  But  today  I  wish  I  were 
a  man  to  walk  the  middle  way,  serene, 
like  you,  an  honest  artist. 


57 


VIII 


I  am  a  singer  and  a  lover.  I  gaze  into  my 
mirror  at  my  mouth.  The  sun  shines  into  my 
mirror  and  touches  my  mouth.  And  all  my 
being  expands  into  a  wish  for  you,  for  you  to 
touch  my  mouth.  I  gaze  into  my  mirror  and  I 
sing  to  you.  I  watch  my  lips  which  breathe 
your  name.  And  I  know  all  history  as  a  song 
of  love.  I  am  a  singer  and  a  lover. 


IX 

I  am  in  armor,  shining.    And  through  the 
glinting  of  my  casque  my  eyes  are  shining  wells 
of  fire.    Then  do  not  hold  to  me  your  hands. 
I  strike  them  with  my  sword.    And  do  not  ask 
me  with  your  eyes,  or  call  my  name. 
For  I  step  proudly  on  the  highway.     I  am  in 
armor,  shining. 


59 


It  passed,  my  mood  of  passion.  But  while  it 
lasted,  my  reach  was  to  the  stars,  to  the  heart 
of  the  earth,  to  the  far  horizons,  east  and  west. 


60 


XI 

Take  your  loneliness  away  with  you.    And  hide 
it.    Hide  it  under  laughter  and  careless  words. 
Take  your  shyness  away  with  you.  And  hide  it. 
Hide  it  behind  proud  eyes.     If  people  are  not 
wise  enough  to  know  you  lonely  and  shy, 
let   them   think  you  gay  and  proud. 
And  come  to  me. 


61 


XII 

Someday,  when  there  is  no  need  but  the  need 
of  your  beauty,  my  face,  I  will  give  you 
the  need  of  your  beauty,  the  meed  of  your 
beauty,  oh,  my  lovely  face.    I  will  hang  an 
aquamarine  crystal  in  the  shadows  of  your  neck, 
the  shadows  of  your  eyes,  the  shadows  of 
your  lips.    Someday,  when  there  is  no  need 
but  the  need  of  your  beauty. 


62 


XIII 


If  you  just  keep  putting  on  things  you'll  be 
dressed.    If  you  just  keep  doing  things  they'll 
be  finished.     If  you  will  not  think  you'll  forget. 
And  if  you  dress  and  do  things  and  do  not  think 
you'll  grow  old  successfully. 


XIV 


To-night  I  want  only  negative  things.     Cold 
and  need  and  loneliness.     I  want  to  go  naked 
into  fresh,  dark  air.     Today  I  have  had  too 
much.     I  have  eaten  too  much.     I  have  worn 
too  much. 


XV 

The  day  quickens.     With  lines  of  rose  and 
green  the  sky  is  rayed  above  the  foot-hills. 
From  out  the  inner  dusk  the  tiny  sounds  of 
life  begin,  a  touching  of  the  leaves,  the  moving 
of  small  birds,  uneasy  mutterings  of  valley 
trains.    I  cannot  sleep.    Impotently  I  turn  from 
side  to  side.   From  side  to  side  I  turn  my 
thoughts  impotently.    A  rat  is  running  in  the 
wall.      Marauding  dissonance,  made  large  by 
the  wall's  emptiness. 


XVI 

A  blue  jay's  screech  is  the  only  affirmation. 
The  twilight  is  grey.    Let  me  sing  to  you  my 
palinode.    My  song  of  evening.     My  faith  has 
gone  adventuring.     My  faith  has  gone 
adventuring.    In  other  lives.    In  other  lives. 
A  thin  moon  watches  me  insensibly. 
The   fog  creeps  with   ribbon   fingers   into   the 
canyons.    And  into  the  depths  of  me. 


66 


MISCELLANEOUS 


YOUR  VERSE. 


Has  it  the  glory  of  a  flame  at  night?    Has  it 
the  magic  of  an  opal's  light?    Is  it  divine,  mad, 
wild,   a   tree-god's  reaching  dream?     Or  is  it 
peaceful,    full    of    majesty,    an    overwhelming 
rhythmic  stream,  made  of  great  harmonies  and 
slow-born   melodies?      Can   it   crash   cymbals, 
echoing,  echoing,  up  and  down,-an  age, 
round  and  round,-a  world,  vibrating  to  the 
stars?    And  does  it  dance,  and  can  it  leap  and 
sing?  And  soothe,  and  make  us  understand? 
Has  it  the  passion  of  a  desert  night?     Is  it  a 
whimsy,  light  so  light,-a  feather  tendril, 
perhaps?    Is  it  a  wisp,  is  it  a  sob  on  the  wind, 
the  thinnest  sweetness  of  a  harp,  struck  out 
of  doors?     Is  it  the  fullest  sound  of  orchestra 
with  cellos  and  Italian  lungs?   Yes?  Turquoise, 
amethyst  and  jade,-but  does  it  make  you  see 
the  colors,  see  the  amber  gleam,  and  peacock 
iridescent,  subtlest  grey?     Yes?      And  does 
it  make  you  climb  and  climb,  and  cling  and 
cling  with  bleeding  fingers?    No?    We  ask  our 
questions  madly?    Then  let  us  laugh  horribly, 


an  orange  satyr  putting  fingers  to  our  mouths, 
grotesquely  whistling.  That's  it,  a  shrunken 
gourd  that  once  in  the  yellow  sun  lured  with  its 
rounded  promise.  You  call  yourself  a  poet? 
Peace.  We're  weary-souled.  Glorious  illusion, 
luring  form  of  other  world  we  here  but  charcoal 
clumsily,-the  word  of  a  God  through  stupid 
lips. 


70 


ALASKA    SKETCHES. 


I  want  to  meet  a  mate  at  the  head  of  the  Yukon. 
I  want  to  float  in  an  old  rowboat  down   the 
Yukon  with  a  month's  provisions.   Twenty-one 
hundred  miles,  I  want  to  float.   When  we  come 
to  small  towns,  posts  on  the  islands,  camps  in 
the  forests,  we'll  chin  in  the  sun.   We'll  fish  and 
we'll  hunt.    We'll  sleep  under  the  stars  for 
twenty-one  hundred  miles  of  the  Yukon. 
Why  must  I  work  in  a  shoe  factory? 


II 


The  river  was  rilled  with  the  salmon,  with  the 
turgid  passion  of  the  salmon  in  the  springtime. 
They  moved  slowly  upward  to  the  northern  hills. 
They  moved  heavily  upon  their  errand  of  life. 
They  threw  themselves  up  cataracts,  leaped 
shallow  pools,  pushed  each  other  gaping  upon 
the  banks.  They  slashed  their  bodies  upon 
rocks  and  jammed  their  heads  between  logs. 
In  the  silence  of  northern  hills,  in  icy  northern 
pools  they  died.  And  millions  of  new  salmon 
sought  the  sea,  to  live,  to  play,  only  to  return 
to  those  icy  northern  pools,  to  spawn,  to  die. 


DREAMS. 


I  was  seeking  his  soul  as  a  color,  purple. 

It  was  a  dream  in  a  vague  world  of  dreams. 

And  he  was  seeking  mine,  a  dull,  sea  green. 

But  in  an  underworld  of  seeking  forms  and 

merging  colors  another  soul,  more  brilliantly 

green,  bewildered  him.    At  last  we  met. 

In  a  perfect  meadow  at  sunrise.    A  wild  iris 

and  its  sheath.   A  green  flycatcher  chattered  on 

a  fence. 


73 


II 

Trees  and  clouds  and  bats.     And  fat  Chinese 
with  strange,   flat  hats.      Embroidered  on  an 
ancient  altar  cloth.     These  were  part  of  the 
dream.    And  I  was  floating  on  a  silken  stream, 
stitched  by  deft  ringers  in  another  world. 
And  did  it  only  seem,  the  little  hillocks,  blue 
and  gold,  the  grotesque  flowers,  surely  bold? 
Orange  and  purple  the  maker's  scheme. 

I  was  very  young  in  the  dream I  was  a 

foundling  soul,  wrapped  in   an   ancient   altar 
cloth. 


74 


NEW    YORK,    MAY    6. 


Today  defeated  winter  sits  brooding  under  a 
sullen  sky.     He  bites  his  nails  between  gusty 
snorts.    Now  why  can't  he  be  gracious  when 
everyone  knows  he  is  in  love  with  the  spring. 


75 


CHARIOT    OF    THE    DEAD. 


A  motor  hearse  went  flashing  by 
triumphantly  black  and  silver  in  the 
April  sunlight.     But  all  the  children 
stopped   their  play  to  gaze  after 
it  as  it  skidded  round  a  corner. 


CEMETERY. 


Home  burial  park.   Artistic  locations  for 
mausoleums.    One  hundred  acres  of  landscape 
and  lawn,  trees  and  grassy  knolls.     Expert 
care  of  graves.    Eight  minutes  from  the  city  by 
motor  hearse.     Get  our  terms. 
Get  my  terms,  soul.  Take  your  body  to  a  clean, 
quick  fire  that  it  may  be  sweet  in  death. 
And,  soul.      If  it   be  the  springtime  in  New 
England,  blow  the  dust  of  me  by  the  roots  of 
a    pink    dogwood    that    blossoms    outward    in 
shelves  of  color.    I  thank  you,  soul.    You  have 
loved  this  body. 


77 


LOITERER. 


Am  I  a  loiterer  on  these  premises?    I  am  a 
loiterer  upon  the  earth.    If  I  am  a  loiterer  on 
these  premises  I  am  liable  to  be  prosecuted  to 
the  full  extent  of  the  law.    So  the  sign  says,— 
the  law  of  the  midland  subway  company. 
But  if  I  am  a  loiterer  upon  the  earth  I  think  I 
am  liable  to  be  blessed  to  the  full  extent  of 
the  law. 


YOUNG  BOY. 


Young  life,  young  lust,  young  love  are  in  my 
heart  with  the  singing  spring.     And  is  there 
anything  else?  Black  death,  black  dearth,  black 
despair?     Perhaps.      But   they   belong  to  the 
winter.   To  the  old  winter. 


79 


SPRING. 


Spring,  the  eternal  dear,  has  been  on  a  visit 
to  western  parts.  She  says  she  grew  tired  of 
being  so  steadily  beautiful.  She  is  flirting  with 
me.  She  is  coaxing  me  and  luring  me  back  to 
love  her  again.  Spring,  the  eternal  dear. 


80 


LOUISE. 


Putting  away,  putting  away,  I  spend  half 

of  the  glorious  day,  putting  away  that  others 

may  find  when  they  wish  to  play. 


81 


PORTRAIT. 


There,  hold  your  head.  This  light  is  wonderful. 
I  can  see  the  iris  in  your  eyes.  And  that  singing 
purple,  am  I  to  get  it?    Blue  and  red  and  the 
sunlight.  Sometimes  one  feels  it  an  impertinence 
to  paint,  especially  things  as  paintable  as  you. 
A  red  complexion  is  so  difficult  to  do,  so  fine. .  .  . 
the  blues  that  come  around  the  nose  and  throat. 
Now  rest  your  neck,  that  long,  long  neck. 
I  know  it  needs  it.     And  poke  the  fire. 
But  don't  look  at  this.  It  must  be  further  along. 
Ah,  what  a  maddening  piece  of  flesh  you  are. 
I  look  at  you,  and  you  are  lavender. 
I  look  again  and  you're  a  yellow  green. 
I  can  but  play  these  colors  to  catch  the  beauties 
that  elude  me.   Your  mouth  was  made  to  paint 
or  kiss.    Perhaps  you're  just  as  glad  I  am  the 

artist.    That  bone I  have  it  now. 

It  bothered  me.  It's  strange  a  thing  so  different 
could  be  so  surely  you. 


82 


FORD    SEDAN. 


A  Ford  sedan  is  so  nice  for  a  college  professor. 
It  is  so  snug  and  grey  and  so  easy  to  run. 
From  the  house  to  the  laboratory.    From  the 
laboratory  to  the  house.   From  the  house  to  the 

laboratory And  then,  its  price  is 

proletarian.    Its  mission  aristocratic. 


CAMPUS    GIRL. 


Sculptured  hair.     And  eyes  as  hard.     But  a 

soft  mouth oh,  the  weakness  of  me!  Her 

mouth  was  a  flower  of  quince  and  orange  that 
tried  to  hold  my  life. 


MAHLER   SYMPHONY. 


O,  the  glory  of  the  soul  of  man,  the  basses 
thundered,  the  brasses  paeaned.  And  the  beauty 
of  the  soul  of  woman,  the  violins  breathed, 
the  wood-winds  sang.     The  glory  of  the  soul 
of  man,  the  beauty  of  the  soul  of  woman,- 
the  wonder  of  the  world,-belled,  rocked, 
plunged,  shrieked,  waved,  danced,  sawed, 
drummed  the  symphony.     The  lady  on  my 
right  said  she  hoped  the  meat  had  come  for 
supper.    The  lady  on  my  left  said  she  had 
forgotten  to  lock  the  back  door. 


KNOWLEDGE. 


What  every  woman  knows it  is  no 

beauty  secret,  rare  and  old.    It  is  not  how  to 
cherish  men,  or  how  to  love  a  child. 
It  is  a  greater  knowing.     What  every  woman 
knows,  surely,  is,  that  she  can  wear  navy  blue. 


86 


TO    A    DAHLIA    IN    A    SHOW. 


You  lovely  scarlet  gesture.    Breath  and  blood. 
I  like  your  smell  of  summer  mud.    But  better, 
I  like  the  neatness  of  your  escape  from  a 
bourgeois  border.     You  lovely  scarlet  gesture. 
Breath  and  blood. 


A    WOMAN    I    KNOW. 


A  woman  I  know  creates.    She  makes  carvings, 
lines  and  fabrics.    She  makes  children,  food 
and  flowers.   She  dyes  long  threads  in  a  colored 
maze  and  weaves  them  into  beauty's  strand. 
She  plays.    She  plays  with  a  moon  of  song. 
With  her  feet  purple  in  sun-warmed  grapes  she 
puts  her  lips  to  a  star's  breast.  The  breath  that 
is  a  part  of  the  large  winds  of  the  world  passes 
through  her. 


88 


WE    PRAYED. 


I  prayed  that  I  might  reach  your  soul, 
that  I  might  be  worthy.    I  prayed. 
You  laughed.    That  I  could  be  humble! 
But  I  was  terrible.     You  laughed. 
And  then I  laughed  and  you  prayed, 


THREE  WISHES. 


I  wish  I  had  a  fat  soul  that  did  not  tremble 
when  beauty  touched  me.     I  wish  I  could  sit 
by  a  window  all  day  and  have  the  sun  reflected 
by  my  placidity.    I  wish  I  could  look  into  your 
eyes  and  lie  unflinchingly. 


90 


TO    A    HUMMING    BIRD. 


You  lovely  little  tuft  of  glory,  humming, 
drumming,  round  my  Spanish  broom.    Your 
rufflet  is  so  impudently  splendid  it  needs  your 
mate    to   bring   the   world    to    tone. 
You  little  exquisite,  be  for  a  moment  still, 
that  I  may  have  your  beauty,  at  my  will. 


91 


RESISTANCE. 


Against  the  clamoring  passion  of  you  I  can 
measure  a  day  when  I  saw  a  cornfield  stained 
with  blood.  It  had  the  new  hush  of  oblivion 
©ver  it. 


SEASONS. 


My  warm  hand  upon  my  face  is  beautiful  in 
the  winter.  My  cold  hands  are  beautiful  upon 
my  thighs  in  the  summer.  My  two  souls  are 
one  in  the  spring.  And  in  the  fall  I  sleep. 


93 


FOR  GLORIA. 


Lift  your  body  up  to  me,  slim  and  straight 
as  a  young   birch   tree.      And   as  white. 
Under  the  glory  of  your  hair  that  is  so  pale 
and  thick  and  rare,  my  delight!    And  then,— 
reach  until  you  pass  me  by.    Until  your  reach 
is  to  the  sky.     Through  the  night. 


94 


FROM  GLORIA. 


You  said  you  loved  my  hair.    You  said, 

It  is  all  mine.     This  glory.     Red  with  purple 

shadows.     We  were  Life's  lovers. 

With  each  quickening  breath,  we  dreamed. 

W7e  dared.    And  you  are  dead.    And  I 

I  have  my  riotous  mass  that  no  man  sees. 


95 


LOSS. 


Many  springs  I  have  turned  to  the  new  life, 
felt  the  old  illusion.    With  the  rain  in  the  wind 
and  the  grass  in  its  birth  I  have  renewed  my 
faith.     But  now  you  are  gone  and  the  spring 
has  come.    And  there  is  no  change  in  me. 
I  am  like  the  brown  leaves  on  the  live  oak. 
They  touch   the  moving  green,  but  they  are 
dead  and  hard.     Only  the  fury  of  the  storm 
can  change  them  now. 


AQUAMARINE. 


Some  lovely  things  endure  because  they  are 
the  life  of  Beauty.  Aquarmarine  beads  like 
your  eyes  and  like  the  sea  in  shallow  edging 
pools.  Nine  hundred  years  ago  they  touched 
the  throat  of  a  Chinese  princess.  Some  lovely 
things  endure  because  they  are  the  life  of 
Beauty.  Today  they  touch  your  throat,  your 
vainly  lovely  throat. 


97 


JADE, 


When  the  slender  neck  of  my  jade  maiden  is 
encircled  by  my  necklace  she  is  infinitely  remote. 
She  is  infinitely  alluring.  It  hangs  between  her 
two  young  breasts.  It  is  the  green  of  glacial 
ice,  of  hidden  northern  seas.  Its  light  is  as 
soft  as  starlight.  It  protects  her  from  all  evil. 


HEELS. 


No  heels  for  the  dawning,  the  early  tip  of  the 
dawning.    And  no  soles  for  the  matter  of  that, 
with  the  Irish  grass  to  run  upon.     Low  heels 
for  the  morning,  the  very  top  of  the  morning. 
Low,  good  heels  to  do  my  work  upon.    And  for 
the  afternoon,  when   I   walk  in   to  Derry? 
Oh,  a  sober  heel  about  an  inch  and  a  half. 
But  high  heels  for  the  evening.  Oh,  high  French 
heels /or  Jerry!     Light  heels,  slender  heels, 
shining  high,  high  heels,  for  Jerry  and  the 
dance! 


99 


HOUSE  AT  CARMEL. 


April  and  two  pale  young  moons.  In  the  clouds 
and  on  the  sea.  Hiding,  dancing,  beckoning  to 
the  wind  to  set  them  free.  April  and  the  serried 
coast.  With  ghost  waves  breaking  high  on 
phantom  rocks  that  hold  their  breasts  to  the 

shock  of  the  rhythmic  tide who  but  a 

man  could  build  a  wall  against  the  ocean's  sigh? 


100 


MIRAFLORES. 


Miraflores  of  the  saints,  on  the  plain  outside  of 
Burgos.     Take  a  low  carriage  along  the  road 
where  the  poplars  touch  by  the  river. 
Dark,  grey  walls  and  bare  and  distant  hills. 
Wait  at  the  gate  with  the  beggars  who  whine  in 
the  sun.     And  within  P     Peace.     An  ancient 
brother  in  a  white  Carthusian  gown  blesses  you. 
He  leads  you  to  the  treasure  of  the  church, 
the  marble  wonder  of  de  Siloe.  Where  Isabella's 
parents  lie,  under  immortal  effigies. 
Paintings,  altars,  iron  screens,  he  shows  you 
patiently.     And  patiently  he  answers  many 
questions.    He  never  heard  of  Chicago. 
And  France,-he  never  had  been  there. 
But  he  would  show  me  his  rose  garden. 
Peace.    And  beauty.    And  uncommon  sense. 


101 


HUMMING. 


There's  a  singing  in  my  heart  with  the  wind. 
With  the  wind  in  its  full  rhythm  as  it  beats 
around   the   world.      With    the   wind. 
Over  northern  pine  and  mountain.  Through  the 
desert  to  the  ocean.    There's  a  singing  in  my 
heart  with  the  wind.    There's  a  singing  in  my 
heart  with  the  wind.   With  the  wind  in  its  wide 
motion  from  the  desert  to  the  ocean. 
There's  a  singing  in  my  heart  with  the  wind. 


1 02 


CHRISTMAS    WISH. 


Now  the  sun   turns  to  a  New  Year. 
And  many  men  rejoice  in  newer  births  and 
holy  days.    May  you  rejoice  with  sun  and  man. 
With  gods  and  men  may  your  spirit  leap  and 
sing. 


103 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


221937 


rtii   Jt3  194U 


JOT    D 


MAY  24  1947 


v r  >     '   i 

ID   i  1 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


